


You Get the Mistletoe and I'll Be Your Santa, Baby

by LazyBaker



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 01:11:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17234606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyBaker/pseuds/LazyBaker
Summary: Steve’s looking at him and Billy’s wearing Steve’s itchy and warm handmadeI love yousweater, looking right back.They’re sharing a blanket.





	You Get the Mistletoe and I'll Be Your Santa, Baby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Natrix_natrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natrix_natrix/gifts).



Billy’s got whiplash.

One minute he’s outside Steve’s house, chewing on his thumbnail, wishing he had a cig to calm himself down, happy to be out of his crowded house where Max and Susan and Neil are _always_ home, fist up in the air and about to knock on Steve’s door and the next he’s got a hand fisting his jacket, yanking him off his feet and inside.

It’s the middle of the day. Winter break started last week. Steve _called him_ , said he had an extra set of snow chains and it’s not exactly like they’re on ‘calling at home to gab’ friendship level, but since Billy’s from San Diego and, like, snow isn’t a _thing_ he’s ever had to deal with and since he’s not about to take handouts from a rich guy still living with his parents—

but he also can’t risk skidding his camaro into a tree. That’s a mess he doesn’t want to have to deal with and Steve _said_ Billy can pay him back by putting chains on his beemer’s tires so it’s not _charity_ and if it _was_ he’d have torn Steve a new asshole through the phone line.

Steve’s face is right in Billy’s face and Billy’s too surprised to yank himself back and put some distance between them to aim a punch or ask _what the fuck do you think you’re doing?_

Steve just drags Billy inside and kicks the door closed without a look back.

-

He’s only ever been in the Harrington Palace a few times. Once at a party. The rest because Max can’t make friends with other girls her own age. Every time he’s set foot here he’s curled his lip and wanted to grab and smash everything with that expensive shine to it—which is pretty much _every single thing_.

Or he’s wanted to turn tail before shit got _weird_ because Billy’s clueless over what to do with his own damn hands when it’s just him and Steve without the brats to buffer.

He’s just—he’s not supposed to be _inside_ where Steve is.

He’s wearing his only two jackets. Got his gloves in his back pocket. Boots on. California’s much warmer winters firmly in mind to make him comfortably annoyed. Ready for the godawful cold as he’ll ever be.

He’s meant to be _outside_. To _stay_ outside. To leave when he’s done, roll his window down to flip Steve off for the hell of it when he’s got him in his rearview mirror and watch when Steve sends his bird flying back to him.

It’s safer this way. Keeps the distance _not_ weird. Keeps Billy’s dumb ass sane.

But Steve’s a moron who doesn’t know what he’s doing half the time and _still_ Billy’s caught by surprise. Predicting Steve never goes well. All it does is leave Billy worked up, head spinning, whiplashed, and wondering _why_ it had to be some hick from _Indiana_ who’s caught him by the short and curlies. Steve’s brick wall oblivious and somehow refuses to let him go.

Billy’s jackets are yanked off in one go. Steve pushes at his shoulders to _hurry the hell up, who’s outside when it’s forty fucking degrees?_ like it isn’t freezing _inside_ too. There’s a _fuck you_ on the tip of his tongue before he manages to actually twist around and look at Steve.

He’s wearing a green sweater with a brown reindeer on the chest. Threads are out of place. There’s a hole near his shoulder. It’s lopsided. The neck’s stretched out. This is handmade shit that a says a person _cares_ about you and _thought_ of you and _loves you_ enough to knit it _for_ you.

Billy’s startled by it. Makes him think of every Christmas he’s survived. There’s an ache in his chest and he wants to put the camaro in neutral and lie down under the back wheels.

But he can’t do that because Steve has a grip on his wrist and keeps _talking_ , not caring that Billy’s clearly not listening, too wrapped up in the hold Steve has on him, touching his bare skin with icy fingers, completely distracted by the fact that he’s just _letting_ all of this happen.

Steve’s got family who actually loves him.

Billy’s mood takes the hit and sours.

All he wanted today was to get out of the house _without_ Max being forced on him and to see dorky, moronic, too nice for his own good, who rocks sweater weather like no other guy can, _Steve_.

The house is dark inside except for the Christmas lights strung up going from room to room. Billy’s got goosebumps and it’s just plain _sad_ how unwilling he is to trade Steve touching him for his jackets back by the front door.

“Who the hell wears _denim_ in winter?” Steve says, wrenching open a closet.

“Who wears spazzy sweaters at all?” Billy bites back, teeth chattering together and entire body clenched up and shivering. “Indiana is stupid.”

“Dude, not arguing with you on that one.” Steve says. “I guess it probably wouldn’t be this cold in California—oh! Found ya, you sneaking fucker.”

It’s another sweater _just like Steve’s_. It’s red with a brown reindeer. It’s worn. It’s _caring_ in knitted wool.

Billy stares at it and he knows what’s about to happen and he knows better than to just _let it_ , but it’s Christmas and Billy’s not expecting a kiss under the mistletoe any time soon.

“You’re a fuckin’ weirdo, Harrington.”

“Again, _seriously not arguing_ , now put your arms up, big boy.”

—

Billy’s _pretty sure_ he’s stepped into another reality that’s way better than his own.

He’s holding a mug of hot chocolate in his hands. There’s a candy cane clinking around inside, bumping into marshmallows.

Nat King Cole is _offering this simple phrase._

The fireplace is lit.

The couch has been moved closer to it.

Steve’s _on_ the couch _with_ Billy. His back is against the arm, knees tucked up close to his chest and _they’re close_ and the couch is _so much smaller_ than Billy remembers it ever being. Steve’s looking at him and Billy’s wearing Steve’s itchy and warm handmade _I love you_ sweater, looking right back.

They’re sharing a blanket.

“The heater's broke.” Steve tells him. Sipping at his mug. He’s scooting closer. Billy doesn’t know what to do. “Sorry.”

Steve finds Billy’s leg and then his toes are wiggling under, burrowing between Billy and the cushion, and Billy nearly throws his drink all over the rug and Steve’s still got this _whatever_ expression that tells Billy _nothing_.

Billy’s _pretty damn sure_ Steve had been wearing thick, red and green striped socks before the blanket came out.

Billy doesn’t say anything. Can’t really open his mouth even though that’s what he does. He pokes. He snarls. He pushes and Steve pushes back.

There’s a Christmas tree in the corner of the room with no presents under it. The lights on it are off, making the garland look shriveled and limp. Nat King Cole is the _only_ other voice in the house. Two days till Christmas and outside of this room it’s icicles on your teeth freezing.

Steve’s toes wiggle further under Billy’s leg. Billy clutches at his mug.

So far, Steve’s the only one pushing and Billy’s letting him.

“What’s the one with the—the one with the curly hair?” Billy says.

“What’s the one _what?_ ”

“You know, the little nerd you babysit with the cap? The, like, second most obnoxious one?”

Steve looks around the room in disbelief. His toes move _again_. Billy’s never been so aware of his own thigh. He’s glad for the cold and the fire and the blanket otherwise the heat scorching his face would have an obvious explanation.

“You’re ranking _Dustin_ as the second _most_ obnoxious one? What kind of rating system you using, Hargrove? He’s like, at most, the fourth one— _and you know his name_.”

“Whatever.”

“Literally, like, four days ago you said _go suck Rudolph’s dick and fuck off, Henderson_ to him. At Dairy Queen.”

“Yeah, and he deserved it for being a shitstain.”

Steve mutters into his mug, “still, _you know his name_.”

“ _Whatever_. Not the point.” Billy grinds his teeth. “So, is he—is he not,” he’s about to crawl out of his skin, _christ_ , “like, is he not _around_ or something?”

“Went to Minnesota with his mom. He’s got family out there I guess.”

Steve says it easily. He’s closer now. Huddling around his mug and if Billy just leaned to his right _an inch_ his shoulder would be touching Steve’s knee and then—

Billy drinks his hot chocolate. Bites a chunk out of the candy cane. He doesn’t even _like_ peppermint.

“Okay.” Billy says. Steve’s toes keeping wiggling and Billy wonders why he hasn’t said anything about _any of this_ or why Steve hasn’t either, as if the answer isn’t right there in front of them. “And I’m guessing ma and pa aren’t home?”

“Ole ma and pa, huh.” Steve drawls, rolling his eyes. “I mean, they’re barely _ever_ home.” Steve shrugs it off. “They said there’s too much snow on the road to drive or something, so I guess we’re postponing Christmas till _whenever_.”

“And the heater's out?”

Steve’s eyes narrow.

They’ve never really _talked_.

Steve calls Billy an _asshole_. Billy sticks his tongue out at him. That’s as deep as their conversations get. No touchy-feely feelings. No holding hands. No crying.

The thing is—and it’s _a lot_ of things rammed in and knotted up together—Steve’s not pissed. Not at his parents. Not at the heater being broke. Not at an empty house or a present-less Christmas tree.

Billy’s got a phony Neil playing nice. Getting him new wheels for the camaro. The picture perfect family man with his _picture perfect_ _family_ all together for the holidays. Stockings hanging from the mantle. Presents under the tree. Christmas carols looping on the record player. Everyone playing nice. Everyone pretending. Everyone forgetting.

Steve’s parents are shit, but at least they’re not faking it. Billy’s struck jealous for this empty, cold house.

Steve leans his head on the back of the couch, hair spread out and spilling dark on the white upholstery.

“I know you came over for the chains, but it’s _freezing_ outside and, I don’t know.” Steve’s mouth twists then he’s smiling, unsure. _Sorry, I couldn’t help it._

He hides his lips behind his mug. Watches Billy. Steve’s eyes are a deep brown and shine as bright as any of the lights lining every house in Hawkins, the fire reflecting in them. Steve’s not about to cry. Too used to all of this with no expectations for something better.

Billy knows what that’s like. Has spent his life swinging between tired and pissed off at a life he doesn’t get a say in.

He wants to give Steve something better.

“Parents suck balls.” Billy says.

Steve snorts, then he’s up and coughing, laughing into his elbow. He glares with crinkled eyes at Billy.

Says, nasally, “I think a marshmallow just went up my nose.”

“Wow, you’re so cool, Harrington.”

“Screw you, Hargrove.”

They’re both grinning at each other.

Steve nudges Billy’s leg with his foot, a soft bump saying _you’re an idiot, but that’s all right_.

The orange from the fire washes Steve in this light, making his already soft face softer. His hair warmer. His cheeks rosy. Blushing, maybe.

Billy reaches under the blanket, wraps a hand around Steve’s ankle. Thin and bony and warm warm warm. Rubs his thumb in small, tender circles just under that jutted out bone, saying _I wanna give you expectations_.

Steve's laughter trails off, but he’s smiling. Looking at Billy from under darker and thicker lashes, eyes shining, and Steve’s a moron, but Billy’s an even bigger one and he’s never wanted to do something dumber in his entire life than kiss Steve Harrington right now and into the next year and the year after, mistletoe or not.

Good thing Billy just stopped caring about being all that smart.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired from a conversation with [kelpie-earnest](http://kelpie-earnest.tumblr.com) on a 'Joe Keery wearing a super comfy looking sweater' post on tumblr that evolved into 'Steve using Billy as a foot warmer'. 
> 
>  
> 
> [While I wrote a fic, kelpie-earnest drew the most adorable, heart warming fanart for it (definitely check it out!)](http://kelpie-earnest.tumblr.com/post/181569640755/for-granpappy-winchester-companion-piece-to)
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com) and [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/cannibear)


End file.
